


A Charming Obsession

by SeashellWriter



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Depression, Eddie being creepy, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Paranoia, Stalking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-14 11:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13589292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeashellWriter/pseuds/SeashellWriter
Summary: He watches and yearns day and night, waiting for the right moment to claim his bride.Why is his darling, sad? Eyes brimming with tears over a slut and two snotty brats. They don't deserve his darling's love.Why is his darling scared? Skin paling and breath hitching from finding his notes and gifts.Why is his darling screaming? Crying out into the night after seeing his silhouette.Waylon has an intense 'admirer' that's not too keen on letting him go.





	1. Chapter 1

_"Just leave Waylon!"_  

Lisa's voice is ice on the harsh winter air, her anger filled eyes narrowed at Waylon from her place at the front door. 

"But Lisa-"

_Slam!_

She's gone, locked up in their own home, leaving him out all alone in the cold, in the deafening silence. 

Another emotional fight between them, how long will this keep going on?

His hands clench tightly into fists, dull nails digging painfully into the palms of his hands as snowflakes float gracefully around him. A long shuddering sigh escapes him, coming out as a white puff of air, before he walks off numbly, barely even registering the chilly breeze ruffling his blonde, short locks. Mixed emotions swirl within him, guilt, anger, despair, it's all balled up into one painful heap in his chest, weighing down on him like cement.

He needs to get rid of it, at least a distraction to make him stop thinking so much.

It doesn't take him long to reach the downtown bar, after all their small apartment isn't too far away from it. He rarely drinks, but god, does he ever need a drink now. A red neon 'open' sign flashes from behind the front, frost covered window of the bar, a small bell chiming when he slips into the building. Warm air hits him immediately, causing him sigh out in relief before his ice blue eyes scan over the dimly lit area. 

He's surprised to find that the bar is mostly empty, only a few lone patrons scattered around here and there. He’s never been one for socializing, always shying away from people, but now he wishes that there was more of a crowd here, to at least lighten up the place, to make it less quiet. He rubs his hands together to unthaw his fingers as he approaches one of the bar stools, seating himself before ordering three shots of vodka. When his drinks are served he immediately tips them back, causing him to make a face at the burning sensation crawling down his throat. 

_‘Mr. Park, I’m sorry but…’_

"Three more shots, please," He murmurs out, and the bartender shoots him a concerned glance before carrying out his request.

_‘Your sons… They_ _were found_ _-‘_

He downs another shot almost desperately.

Funny how Lisa tells him to let go, when she has the nerve to look at him like he's the cause- Like it's his fault for-

 The three shots are gone in a flash. God how many was that? His sixth- or was it his seventh shot? It doesn't matter, only that Waylon’s five times lighter now, and the swirling emotions in his chest are dubbed down to a dull throb. He flinches when someone suddenly brushes up against his side, caused by a man deciding to sit next to him. His head lulls around to meet the stranger’s dark blue eyes, and he's taken aback by how warm they are, holding a deep fondness as if he were gazing upon a family member or... a lover. It's unsettling, but perhaps it's the alcohol running through his system that's making him see things.

"Oh, did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to," The intrusive man apologizes, giving him a polite smile before ordering a margarita.

“No, no it’s alllll good!” Waylon reassures loudly while waving a hand dismissively in the air, almost hitting the stranger with his dramatic sweep.

The man's eyes glint in amusement as he watches Waylon swallow down another shot, before musing "It's a rather cold night out tonight."

Waylon slams down the now empty glass with a loud clink, waiting for the scorching in his throat to dissipate before replying impulsively, "Suuuure is! And still mah wife kicked me out as if I were- were some kinda piece of garbage."

Bitterness creeps into his tone, making him frown deeply before he fiddles with the gold band around his ring finger.

 “I meean- I don’t knooooowwww why- I- like! Even bother!” He exclaims in exasperation, before facing the man who’s simply nursing on his drink, almost falling out of his seat in the process.

“Bother with what, darling?” The man jumps into the conversation as if he were Waylon’s friend, as if blurting out personal troubles to a stranger isn’t inappropriate at all.

 

Alarm bells should’ve gone off, but Waylon doesn't hear them, “Weeeelllll, e-everything.... Thiiiisss fucking hopelesss search! M-My wiiiiffeee's distancing heeerrself... How weee don't geet along annnnymore."

He threads a hand through his disarrayed hair, "I-It’s as iif I don’t eeeven matter to- to her, it’s like- she doesn’t think it affects me tooo... Ever since we lost-"

He goes rigid at his own words, an agonized expression spreading over his face, "E-Ever since we lost- o-our two boys- I-It-" A faint whimper escapes him, "I-It's never been the same..."

Waylon doesn't see the stranger's concerned frown, the clear worry written all over his face.

"I-I think she blames me for their deaths- I-I can see it in her eyes- I-I s-should've been more careful- God- I-I should've-"

A grief-stricken sob wretched from his throat cuts him off, before more pour out of him uncontrollably. Hot tears roll down his cheeks, blurring his vision as he gasps out pathetically. The man across from him puts a large hand on his shoulder, looking unsure on what he should to do with himself. That's when Waylon clumsily leans into the touch, accidentally falling forward and grabbing onto the stranger's broad shoulders to keep himself upright. The man stiffens, a shocked expression painting his features before a blush stains his cheeks. Waylon however doesn't notice the man's star struck reaction, too swept up in grief and intoxication.

"S-sorry- I-"

"Come here, darling."

Before Waylon knows it, he's being swept up into a comforting embrace, strong arms wrapping around him and pulling him towards the kind, strange man. The stranger's unbearably warm, heat practically radiating off of him as Waylon situates himself on his lap. It's... Oddly nice, being held like this, the world's more blocked out this way, it's as if he's being protected from his misery and distress. His hands come up shakily to clutch onto the stranger's rough textured vest, burying his face into the dark blue material as the man's calloused hands brush up and down his back in soothing strokes.

"I-I’m s-sorry-" He tries again to apologize, his broken voice coming out muffled against the man's chest. But the man simply hushes Waylon gently, a hand coming up to his head to pet at the blonde's locks. If Waylon raised his head up now, he’d see a pleased, almost delighted smile fighting its way onto the stranger’s lips.

“That _slut_ doesn’t deserve your love or affections,” The man's quiet, his voice almost mimicking a lover's whisper, “You deserve so much better, my dear, sweet Waylon.”

D-Dear, sweet Waylon?

Even Lisa doesn't talk to him with that much adoration. 

"Y-Yoou... Know my nam?" Waylon croaks out, sniffling loudly. He doesn't remember ever introducing himself.

"Oh yes, I know so much about you, darling," The words cause an unpleasant shiver to race up Waylon's spine, making him tilt his head back in order to look the stranger in the eye, his face red and wet from crying.

Uneasiness curls around in his gut at the man's loving gaze, the one he naively chose to ignore before.

"Do you remember the day we met? Do you even remember me?"

"I- No..." Waylon stutters out, his eyes catching onto the stranger's prominent jawline and cheekbones.

The man’s blue eyes glint sadly, his lips upturning into a weak smile that softens his features, “Hmm, that's truly a shame, darling.”

Waylon’s tempted to apologize, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he doesn’t even know why he should say sorry. Instead, one of his hands unlatches from the vest he clung tightly onto moments ago, slowly moving up towards the man's smooth face. He lightly touches the stranger's cheek, fingertips lightly tracing over warm skin. The man's breath hitches, eyes widening in surprise but allows the contact nevertheless.

"Maaaybbeee if- you know, told me yourrrr name, I'd remember," Waylon slurs out, his wandering hand sliding away after a moment.

"Oh- Well," He clears his throat, a little flustered as he recovers, "My name is Eddie."

"Eddie? That's a greeeaat nam!" Waylon exclaims, a wide smile spreading across his face from his sudden giddiness, "Heeereee! To cheer ya up, I'lll hug it out with yoooou, caaause I don't know annnnyone nameeeds Eddie."

His gut should’ve stopped him, a twisting warning making him flee from the stranger who claims to know so much about him, but instead, Waylon haphazardly throws his arms around Eddie, his face burying into his shoulder this time. Eddie sits there for a moment, surprise making him immobile, before his chest rises against Waylon from a deep, blissful sigh, arms wrapping around the smaller man in return.

"If you only knew what you do to me, darling," Eddie tightens his hold on the drunk, too trusting man, his chin resting on the blonde's fluffy hair.

Waylon's really tired now, arms weakening their hold and starting to slip... Especially from being engulfed in a comforting, warm darkness. He really shouldn't fall asleep- This really isn't a good idea. 

"I promise, I'll be so much better than _her_ , I'll show you what love really is," Eddie's voice is hushed, and low, fading.

Ok... Just... Five minutes... And then he'll tell the creepy man to stop being so creepy... And yah....

"We're going to be so beautiful, my dear." 

…

Sunlight filters in through the slits in the blinds overhead, rousing the blonde from his slumber. He groans when he attempts to open his eyes, a splitting headache knocking into his skull painfully. He curls into himself, turning away from the agonizing rays of light before snaking his arm forward to feel around for Lisa, only for his hand to land on cool, empty sheets. His eyes crack open, confirming that he is indeed alone. Not only that, but he’s also not in his own bedroom. An uneasy weight balls up in his stomach, making him sit up instantly, only to growl out from the sudden spike of pain to his head the action causes.

What happened last night?

He holds his head, gritting his teeth as he takes in his wrinkled, long sleeved shirt and jeans, deeming it as a good sign that he’s clothed. His black coat, shoes, and socks are gone however, his bare feet half buried under some crumpled up blankets. His half-lidded eyes land on the rickety nightstand right beside him, two aspirins, a cup of water, and a note lying on the hard surface. He grabs the two white pills first, plopping them into his mouth before downing the water as if he hadn’t drunk in days. The water does wonders to his parched throat, and even alleviates his skull splitting headache a little. He wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand- who the hell would go through the trouble in making him feel comfortable?

How’d he even get here? If he can’t even remember that much then... He must’ve gotten pretty wasted. His eyes land on the slip of paper he was just eyeing moments ago, picking it up gingerly as his brows furrow in suspicion.  

The handwriting on it is a neat cursive, making Waylon squint against the paper from how unfocused his eyes are.

_Dear Waylon,_

_I hope you don't have too much of a headache_ _today._ _You mustn't drink that much alcohol in one sitting, darling,_ _it isn't healthy._ _You're lucky that I was around during your vulnerable state, you could've gotten seriously injured. But, I'm glad that you're alright_ _, just be more careful for my sake and yours_ _._

_I know what I'm about to write next may sound vulgar, but you look so adorable, radiant even,_ _while_ _you sleep, completely at my mercy. I couldn't help but watch you, trace every curve and every breath you took with my eyes. I would've stayed to see those innocent eyes open, to see how you would've reacted to my presence. Would you even remember me this time? But regretfully, I have a pressing matter that I must take care of._

_But do not fret, darling, I'll be seeing you again soon._

_I promise._

He's left trembling, fingers struggling to keep a grip on the piece of paper as fear spears through his heart.

"W-What the fuck?" He murmurs out, his voice a pitch higher than usual.

_‘Fuck, what the hell happened last night?!’_

He wracks his brain for answers, shuddering at the prospect of this messenger being the one who caringly brought him here. And... What do they mean by _'_ _I'll be seeing you again soon?_ _'_ What the hell?

Ugh... Think... Did he give his phone number away to some weirdo? His address? Or is this note some kind of sick prank?

 He… That’s right… He fought with Lisa, and then it turned… Really bad. She threw him out… He went to a bar to drink his problems away. He took a few shots... Ok… Now it’s getting a bit fuzzy. He thinks he cried against someone… He smacks a hand over his face at that. Ah fuck, how embarrassing, not one of his finest moments. Did they have blue eyes? What was their name? Fuck, he's not sure. Jeez… is that really all he can remember?

He curses under his breath, tearing up the creepy note in a few quick motions, before wincing at the too loud noise it causes. As he begins forcing himself out of the cluttered bed, his eyes dart around for his coat and shoes. He spots his coat first, draped neatly over a worn out armchair and quickly goes over to it, relieved to find his wallet, keys, and phone still there. He's expecting to see notifications of worried texts, or missed calls from Lisa on his phone, but oddly enough, there isn't any.

Is she still mad at him?

He hits her number with his thumb, hastily putting on his coat as his head twists around every which way in search for his shoes.

"Heeeey! This is Lisa and I'm not at the phone right now! Call me back!"

Damn, straight to voicemail. She should be up right now too, is she really that angry at him still?

He lets out a deep exhale, finally finding his shoes before scrambling out of the apartment he crashed in. 

He's curious however, as he's leaving the apartment, maybe he should wait and see if that person who brought him here will come back.

No, not a good idea he decides, effectively pushing the insane idea out of his head, he needs to make amends with his wife.

…

Waylon steps out of a bright yellow cab, a bouquet of cheerfully colored flowers gripped tightly in his grasp. The apartment he calls his humble abode stands tall and intimidating, making him swallow thickly before walking towards it. He said some harsh things last night, didn't he?

_His laptop is_ _held_ _accusingly at him_ _in her hands,_ _her eyes piercing_ _through him._

_"You need to let go Waylon! This isn't right! Finding the murderer isn't going to bring the boys back!"_

_How dare she look at him like that! Her beautiful green eyes, that used to hold so much warmth and affection for him, are now sharp, holding only blame and bitterness when she looks at him._

_"You think I don't know that?!" He snaps back, months, weeks, and days of_ _holding in his_ _anger_ _and grief making_ _him_ _explode, "At least_ _I'm doing something_ _other than wallowing in self-pity! At least I want justice to be served!"_

_She flinches,_ _eyes widening in surprise as she steps_ _backwards._

_He can't_ _stop_ _._

_He's glaring back at her with an intensity he's not known for, "At least I care about them! At least I have the guts to not blame you for losing sight of them that day! I bet you fucking blame me, don't you?!_ _Is that why you always look at me like that? As if I'm_ _some_ _inhumane_ _monster!?"_

_"N-No! I don't blame you for what happened to the boys!" She_ _’s_ _gutted, hurt flashing across her face, "H-How could you say that?! How could you... A-After everything we've been through..."_

_She's reduced to tears right before his eyes._

_He's deflating now, snapped out of his anger driven haze._

_"O-Oh. Lisa... I-I'm... S-Sorry... I-"_

_Losing the kids_ _._

_Maybe that's why her stares bother him so much, it's because... He blames himself._

"Lisa?" He calls out softly after knocking on their apartment room door, "Hey... Um... I-I'm sorry about last night..."

He pauses, sighing as he searches for the right words to say.

"I-I... I fucked up... Ok? I know it's not enough to say I'm sorry.... But... Can we talk?" He lets out a nervous chuckle, shuffling back and forth on his feet uneasily, "I even bought you flowers, your favorite kind."

There's no response... Nothing, not even the sound of her footsteps.

"Hey, Lisa you there?"

Did she go out?

He digs his keys out of his pocket, struggling to unlock the knob with how jittery he is. When he swings open the door, he lets out a gasp, blue eyes widening in horror.

The once, homey, decorated room, is a chaotic mess, furniture upturned, pictures and vases now broken pieces spread across the floor, indicating a massive struggle. The flowers leave his grasp, crashing against the floor, petals scattering and forgotten as he rushes inside.

"Lisa?!" He calls out, his tone grating with a mixture of fear and worry.

He's stepping over scattered pieces of furniture, lopsided chairs and knickknacks... That's when he finds her, sprawled out across the black and white checkered, tiled floor of the kitchen. Red... The color red... There's so much... So much blood. The metallic scent hits his nostrils harshly, nauseating him, as Lisa lies there, stiff as a board, her brown, wavy locks soaked with the vile liquid pouring out of her. Thick, neat slashes are strewn across her face, stab wounds violently decorating her chest, staining her pajamas a deep red. 

He's by her side instantly, falling to his knees and not caring for the blood soaking into his jeans, as his trembling, shaking hands touch her, feeling for a pulse. Those eyes that he cursed so much before should've told him exactly how dead Lisa is, those once bitter green orbs, are nothing but pale, dull, lifeless, staring up at the ceiling without any emotion.

This... This isn't happening.

"L... Lisa?" He can barely speak, his voice barely above a whisper as his breath picks up speed.

He presses his hands into her side before shaking her, blood coating his palms and fingers. He shakes her again, and again, only becoming more frantic and desperate. In the back of his mind, he knows it's useless, that she isn't going to wake up.

"L-Lisa... Lisa p-please wake up..." His voice is cracking, hysterical as he begs, "L-Lisa... P-Please... S-Say something!"

Tears are overwhelming his eyes, spilling out over his cheeks as his breathing becomes louder, faster, erratic.

She's... Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I just wanna thank you for your wonderful comments and kudos :3 it really means a lot to me.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for taking so long on this ^^' I had a bit of writer's block on the way.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy :3

_Tap, tap, tap._

Nimble fingers flash across keyboard keys, dull, blue eyes glued onto a brightly lit screen. One of Waylon's legs bounces up and down in a nervous tick, his laptop lighting up his face in the inky blackness of his study. His eyes dart across the screen, rereading his email to the detective assigned to his case, before sending it with a tap on the enter key. In the back of his mind, he's unsure if he even should contact him, not knowing if the police will let him help out on finding the murderer of his wife, or his kids. But, he can't just... Sit here and do nothing... He can't... Not when...

_Not when the ones who killed his wife and kids are out there, free._

Why did Lisa have to die? Why did his boys have to die?

Was it because... He went out to a bar when he should've apologized to Lisa instead? Was it because he should've watched the boys more carefully, instead of going to the restroom and leaving them out as perfect pickings for a deranged lunatic?

A lump is forming in his throat as he grits his teeth, slapping his face into the palms of his hands before scrubbing at his sore eyes.

If he came home sooner... If he only watched the kids and ensured their safety... They'd still be alive, wouldn't they? 

He chokes out a sob, shuddering breaths escaping him as tears spill out from his eyes and wet his hands. Each cry that escapes him wracks his form, a deep gloom pressing against his ribcage almost painfully.

Lisa and his kids didn’t deserve to die… to be _murdered_ … To be carelessly printed across headlines depicting their gruesome deaths. 

 

God he _swore_... If he _ever_ found the murderer of his wife, or the murderer of his kids... He'd... He'd- 

Do what?

Could he really hurt someone else?

Loud, clear knocks on his front door startle him out of his grief, making him whip his head around to look over his shoulder into the dark. He's hesitantly standing up from his computer chair, wiping at his red, puffy eyes, and wondering who in their right mind would be visiting him at... A glance at the digital clock on his laptop tells him it's midnight. His bare feet slap against the cool, wooden floor as he walks warily to the front door, grateful that the owner of the apartment complex let him move into a new room, otherwise he'd be walking by where he found... He's taking a deep breath, fumbling with the lock on the knob.

_'What if it's Lisa's murderer?'_

The sudden thought has his hands freezing in midair, before he shakes his head roughly to knock some sense back into himself.

_'I need to stop scaring myself like that... It's probably just the police wanting to question me again, or even a harmless late-night doorbell ditcher. I'm just being paranoid.'_

_'I'm just being fucking paranoid.'_

Despite these reassuring thoughts, it takes him a moment to gather up enough courage to crack open the door, tensing up and swallowing thickly. He's puzzled to find not a single soul outside, swinging the door open fully before turning his head left and right, only to see the empty, gray walkway, lined with railing and lit up by a row of dim lights, casting menacing shadows over numbered doors. When he boldly takes a step forward out and is about to confirm that yes, his theory about a late-night doorbell ditcher is correct, his foot crunches against something smooth. His gaze turns down and lands onto a white envelope, along with a bouquet of vibrant, red roses. 

"Huh?" His eyes widen in surprise, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Is this some kind of joke? Maybe someone got the wrong apartment.

He plucks the envelope off of the door mat, smoothing it out with his fingertips before turning it over to see if there's any sign to who it's really for. _'To my darling Waylon'_ is written neatly on the back in black ink, written in a familiar cursive that he's sworn he's seen before. 

It... Really is for him.

Eyes.... It suddenly feels as if there's eyes on him, sharp and watching his every move, pinning him like a helpless bug. A chill runs up his spine, goosebumps prickling up his arms and legs. He quickly snatches the flowers up before turning on his heel and slamming the door closed behind him, locking everything back up in a flash.

_'Fuck, fuck calm down...'_

He's taking in shaky breaths, his hands trembling more from fear than from the cold outside.

This is ridiculous, there's no reason to be scared... He's acting like a child...

But, why would someone leave roses and a letter on his doorstep in the middle of the night?

It's probably someone fucking with him, maybe they thought it'd be funny to scare him, they're probably laughing their ass off from how easily he got spooked and rushed back inside. 

But... How do they know his name?

He gingerly sets the roses down onto the island in the kitchen, before his blunt nails dig into the sealed crease of the envelope, ripping it open. Dread is curling around in his gut as he lifts out the nicely, folded up piece of paper contained within the envelope. Curiosity has him pressing onward as conflicting thoughts threaten to stop him, unfolding the paper carefully before narrowing his eyes at the neat cursive covering the page.

_'Dear Waylon,_

_I hope you’re doing alright, darling. It pains me to see you suffering without me,_ _your face twisting_ _with_ _a sorrow I've never seen from you before._ _You aren’t alone, I promise_ _my dear. Trust me._ _You don’t need them._

_Not when_ _I’m always here for you.’_

He’s frozen in shock, blue eyes sliding across the words again, before he lets out a startled yelp from the sudden loud blaring of his phone. The letter leaves his hands, in favor of taking out the noisy device from his jeans and answering the phone in a blind panic.

"H-Hello?"

"Hey... Is this Waylon Park?" The voice on the other line belongs to a man, his tone unsure and hesitant.

"Um... Yes..."

"Oh good!" The man perks up, obviously relieved, "Sorry to be all allusive and everything, I just wanted to make sure that I have the right number. I'm detective Miles Upshur, I just got your email."

Relief floods through Waylon, his stiff shoulders relaxing, "Heh, it's fine. I didn’t expect you to contact me so soon.”

“Well, I guess you can say that I’m married to my work,” Mr. Upshur jokes, before his tone takes a more serious turn, “Anyways… You said you wanted to discuss your wife’s case?”

“Y-Yeah...” Waylon murmurs out, scratching the back his neck with his free hand.

Now that he’s actually talking to him, he… Can’t seem to find the right words.

“I… I want to help out… With the case,” He blurts out.

There’s a pause, moments ticking by, before Mr. Upshur speaks again, “You know... You actually might be of some use actually.”

“Wha- really?” He hardly believes it.

That was easier than he thought.

“Yes...” Mr. Upshur states slowly,  papers rustling in the background from the phone. “How about we meet up at my office and discuss this… It isn’t good to do it on the phone. Wouldn’t want this to somehow get out.”

“I… Yes. Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, I said you _might_ be of some use. Anyways… Does tomorrow sound good to you?” 

Waylon goes quiet at that, before letting out a quiet sigh, “Oh… I can’t tomorrow… I’m going to my wife’s funeral…. But, the day after tomorrow I can.”

Dread pools at the bottom of his stomach, he doesn’t want to go to her funeral… It’s one of the reasons he can’t sleep, besides not being able to get the image of his wife, butchered up and bloody, strewn across the floor, lifeless… not moving… out of his mind.

“Ah… I’m sorry…. Yeah, Wednesday will work,” There’s sympathy in Mr. Upshur’s tone, but Waylon doesn’t react to it.

He’s soon scrambling to grab a pen and a sticky note when Mr. Upshur starts giving him the address and time to meet up at. They then exchange their goodbyes, before hanging up the phone.

Waylon sighs again, setting his phone beside the beautiful roses sitting on the counter top. He glances down at the fallen paper on the floor, bending over and picking it back up before smoothing it out. Now that he’s thinking a bit more clearly… He realizes that this note... It's a lot like the note he found after he got wasted... It would explain why the handwriting and diction is so eerily familiar.

He swallows at the realization, a jolt of terror running up his spine.

_‘I’ll be seeing you again soon.’_

His face pales into a few shades of white, his stomach dropping, before crumpling up the note with firm, trembling hands.

How the hell is he supposed to get any sleep tonight?

…

It's hard to look at Lisa's polished, wooden coffin, when it’s easy to imagine what lies beyond the closed lid.

Lifeless green eyes.

That metallic stench searing onto his nostrils like a branding iron.

Blood.... 

So much _blood_.

_'Fuck, fuck, breathe.'_

He's numb, cold, the chatter and mourning of relatives nothing but background noise, almost static to Waylon’s ears, as his glazed, blue eyes gaze down on her coffin. His sons' two headstones aren't too far away, right by the area where his wife is about to rest for eternity.

_'They're gone.'_

The thought hits him like a bucket of shards stabbing into him.

_'I'll never see them again.'_

His breathing has gone ragged, his dress shoes skidding against frost coated grass as he distances himself from the crowd, from Lisa's disappearing coffin, from his two buried boys with skittish steps. His right-hand clenches down onto his arm in an iron grip, nails digging into the fabric of his black suit, as he can only watch as Lisa's slowly lowered into the ground.

"How could you?!"

He’s jostled out of his agonized reverie when a man violently grabs him by the collar, his eyes meeting an intense, hate filled gaze.

It's... Lisa's father.

"Why weren't you with Lisa?! Why?" The old man's grasp is shaky with anger, his teeth bared as his voice cracks from how loud he's screaming, "Why?!"

Why wasn't he with Lisa?

Why did he go out to a bar instead?

_Why, why, why?_  

If only he knew how much he fucking asked himself that same exact question. How if only he tried to coax Lisa into letting him back in, perhaps things would’ve ended up differently, perhaps he could've protected her, perhaps Lisa would still be alive.

"Let him go, Charles! Leave the poor man alone! Don't do this here... Not at her funeral... Please..." Lisa's mother steps in, hands squeezing onto the old man's shoulder and arm in desperation, until finally, he unhands Waylon.

Waylon immediately takes a couple of steps back, but Lisa's father only stands there, wearing a defeated, worn out expression that makes him look older and frailer. 

"You're such a coward for leaving her alone like that."

The blond’s eyes are cast down, tracing the individual specks of ice decorating the ground, as shame swirls within his gut. It's true, he was a god damn coward for running away from his wife like that, for trying to escape his personal struggles with alcohol. He can’t even deny it. He lets out a sigh before turning on his heel, walking away from the gloom ridden area.

“What, don’t tell me you’re running away _again_ , boy,” Lisa’s father jabs, voice cool and rough on the winter air.

He almost makes a sarcastic quip in response, but instead holds his tongue, not wanting to deal with another confrontation. He doesn’t even turn back or stop on the short path to his worn down, grey car, effectively ignoring the old man.

_‘I’m sorry Lisa, I hope you can forgive me for leaving early.’_

...

Snow pelts against the tiny car’s frame, windshield wipers frantically wiping away at white spots of snow obscuring Waylon’s line of sight. Great, tall mountain peaks stretch high into the sky before him, white, glittering puffs of snow lining the icy road. The road is barren, with the exception of a red pickup truck about a car length behind him. He's bored out of his mind, forgoing the radio to instead sit in utter silence, Lisa could pop up anytime on the news after all. 

_'Lisa...'_

He's sighing, loosening the black tie around his neck in order to distract himself temporarily, when suddenly, a blur of brown and black darts out in front of him from the corner of his eye. He's slamming on the brakes, his tires releasing a shrill screech, as he narrowly avoids the lone deer deciding to cross the road. His car goes into a spin from his sudden move on the ice caked pavement, a terrified, shocked cry ripping from him as he tries to regain control of his car. His car is flying off the road and heading right smack into a pine tree before he can even blink.

_SMASH!_

He's panting after the impact, his fingernails biting into the leather of the steering wheel as his heart threatens to leap out of his ribcage. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he recovers, slowly letting go of the steering wheel from his tight grasp. A loud, brisk knock on the driver's window has him turning his head in a daze, the sight of a tall, well-built man greeting him with concerned blue eyes.

_"_ Are you ok?!"

Waylon blinks hard a few times, everything coming at him so fast.

"W-What?"

The man presses a gloved hand against the window, his other trying to yank open the door in a worried, frantic manner. Waylon however made sure to lock it before even starting the drive home, so it doesn't budge. 

"Please, tell me you're ok! Are you injured?" The man's talking again, but this time Waylon's able to decipher his words.

Waylon's eyes swipe over his own sitting form, searching for any injuries and spotting none, before glancing around at the warped, pressed in interior of his car.

"I... I don't think so," He murmurs out slowly, before moving his hand over to unlock the door and open it. 

He shivers at the sudden blast of cold air washing over him, and the man's immediately on him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and helping him out of the car. His legs are shaky and unstable due to how shell shocked he still is, causing one of his hands to grab onto the stranger's thick, black coat in order to keep himself upright. He manages to glance back at the smashed up, grey wreckage of his car, wincing at the sight of it.

_'Fuck.'_

"Come, darling, we'll be safer away from the wreckage."

Waylon's led by a strong hand curled around his arm, towards a red pickup truck parked on the side of the road. He recognizes the car as the one that was behind him earlier. The man's taking out a flip phone as soon as they reach it, wrapping an arm around Waylon in order to support him. He barely catches the man calling 911, before he manages to untangle himself from the man's arm when he has his bearings gathered, taking a few steps back to a breathable distance. He finds himself glancing back again at what's left of his poor car.

The universe must really have it out for him...

The man eventually hangs up the phone with a charming goodbye, before snapping the phone closed with a single flick of his wrist. He turns his gaze down at the shaken up blond, worry filling those big blue orbs.

"Are you alright?" His voice is deep and soft, speaking to Waylon as if he's about to break into a million pieces.

"Y-Yeah... Just... My car..." He lets out a defeated huff at his own statement, before crossing his arms tightly over his chest from the chilly temperature outside.

_'Why do I even try?'_

A light, warm weight is suddenly draped over Waylon's shoulders, causing the blond to snap up from his slouched posture out of surprise. 

"Wha-" Is all that comes out of his mouth, as he looks over the large coat now covering his form.

His pale blue eyes finally rise up to meet the man's tender gaze, his brows knitting in confusion at his generous act.

"Please, take it, darling... You were shivering."

"Um... Alright. Thank you," He murmurs out, his face reddening as he tugs the coat over himself a little more.

The man dashingly smiles at him in reply, white pearly teeth showing from his peeled back lips. 

Waylon's eyes trace over the man's sharp jaw line, and prominent cheek bones, before eyeing the smoothed out black hair topping his head. The stranger's surprisingly tall, and Waylon's always considered himself as a tall guy, having the proud height of 6'1. But, this man towers over him, having to have another foot over him. This, added with his broad shoulders and hulking chest, has Waylon on edge, even though it shouldn't... He seems nice enough.

“The police will be here within an hour... In the meantime, I suggest we wait and warm up in my car, in order for you to not catch a cold, Waylon.”

The simple statement has Waylon snapping his attention over to the man’s eyes with his shocked own.

“How… How do you know my name?” A disconcerting twist in his gut has his voice cracking nervously, causing him to take a small step back.

“I’ve seen you on the news,” The man replies, his face a calm mask of indifference, “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you…”

“No, it’s fine… I should’ve known,” The blond sighs out, relief flooding over him, as tension leaves his rigid form, “I… Haven’t been watching the news… I suppose you can guess why.”

He lets out a hushed, humorless laugh, pain flickering across his face, “I was actually just at… Never mind.”

The man’s staring down at him worriedly now- and ah fuck, he really did it this time with his self-pitying bullshit.

He puts on a fake smile in order to assure the kind stranger, “I’m fine... really!”

_What a blatant lie._

“I can’t imagine what you must be going through, darling,” The stranger takes a step closer towards Waylon and is reaching out a hand in order to comfort him.

The movement has Waylon tensing up, the large hand resting on his shoulder causing his whole body to freeze up as he attempts to smooth out his expression to feign indifference.

_'It's ok... This guy is ok... He's not going to hurt you... He was just leading you to his fucking car a moment ago for Christ sake!'_

"Y-You know... That was a pretty big deer that I-I almost... H-Hit..." Waylon stutters out loudly, putting on a sheepish grin.

The man’s hand falls, an almost hurt expression passing over his face, but it’s gone before Waylon can really even process it.

“Yes… That was a rather brave feat you did, skidding and avoiding that ignorant creature.”

“Heh… Y-Yeah… I j-just… I don’t know if I’d be able to stand myself if I hurt another living creature like that… Even if it was accidental…” Waylon pictures the mashed-up deer, what could've easily been, and shivers with how much the mental image reminds him of his dead wife.

“I know…” 

“Huh?”

“You just seem like the kind of person to be… exceptionally heroic,” The man states, his deep blue eyes distant and glazed as if he’s remembering something.

“Oh… I do? Uh… Well thanks I guess,” Waylon says, before letting out a nervous chuckle.

The two of them stand there for some time, the conversation eventually tampering out, until they're surrounded in a peaceful, comfortable silence. Waylon never does take up the stranger’s offer to sit in the pickup truck, too paranoid, too unsafe in his mind, and luckily the man never comments on it. Eventually a cop car arrives through the falling snowflakes and obscuring gray fog, and Waylon's immediately on his feet, running towards the car in a rush. As he's turning back around and explaining the car accident, he notices the stranger is gone.

He’s left confused by the man simply up and leaving, the only reminder of him is the black coat still draped over his shoulders. 

He didn’t even get his name.

He decides to push the… unique… encounter out of his head forcefully, before dealing with the police with as clear of a mind as he can manage.

…

Waylon arrives home tired and weary, his legs heavy as he drags himself up the stairs to his second floor apartment. He’s wringing his tie out of its neat knot, his other hand unlocking the door. He’s almost expecting to greet Lisa with his two sons, but the little living space is empty, completely devoid of anyone. It wretches at his heart painfully, but he manages to bottle his emotions up, to keep everything in. That’s when he catches something out of place-

The roses that he left lying out on the kitchen counter last night, are now sitting upright in a vase of water.


End file.
